


We never were

by hideouspumpkin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Paris - Freeform, Pining John, i guess, idk - Freeform, like overdose of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 00:18:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7336954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hideouspumpkin/pseuds/hideouspumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A lot happened since that night. A death, a miracle, a wedding, a bullet, a divorce, a move, but mostly just two men lost between their lives."</p>
            </blockquote>





	We never were

“I don't really understand the point of having a walk, John.”

John hummed but didn't reply, a small smile twitching on his lips as he kept going where his feet were taking him. They were walking slowly, the soft sun of of spring low on their backs and the birds were singing around them, flying from tree to tree, crossing the lazy river they were going along. 

“Come on, John. Let's go back to the hotel.” 

Sherlock was complaining from behind John's shoulder, and without seeing him, John could still perfectly picture Sherlock's impatient pout, looking like a bored child forced to follow his mother. He was even kicking angrily at rocks, sending them hitting John's shoes.

With a sigh, John slowed his pace, waiting for a stropping Sherlock to reach his level.

“Stop sulking, would you. We never take holidays. You finished the case brilliantly and we still have three days at our hotel. And I've never been to Paris. So shut up and let me enjoy this with you.”

Sherlock looked at him, confusion written all over his face, but the detective said nothing as their eyes met, and John's heart skipped a beat. He smiled, trying to hide the blush growing on his face, and bumped their shoulders gently, sending Sherlock slipping a bit on the Parisian cobblestones. The detective puffed haughtily but his eyes were smiling and John saw how Sherlock's cheeks became a very pale shade of red. Sherlock shrugged, as if indifferent, but John knew better and he could see how Sherlock's shoulders grew more relaxed, as did his frown.

Satisfied, John kept going, walking along the canal, letting his thoughts wander, lost in their familiar yet comfortable silence.

They had arrived in Paris the day prior, right after a panicked French inspector had called Sherlock with his rough accent, ranting shakingly about baguette killers and blood in wine. When Sherlock had hung up with his eyes shining, his cheeks burning, and the flame of excitation flooding his veins, John couldn't help but feel his heart racing, torn between fondness and regret.

That look of feverish delight was something John had grew fascinated with. Something he'd dreamt about, something that had haunted him for those two years nobody ever mentioned. And, now after those two years, it had become even worse. Because Sherlock looked so alive, like a child at Christmas, his blood pumping, his body almost shaking with elation, and also because John had fallen for Sherlock after just a month of knowing him. That's all it took. One month.

It was one quiet evening. Sherlock was playing the violin, John was doing his crosswords, and from time to time Sherlock would walk over to John and fill in the blanks, grinning at John's indulgent smiles. Until one moment when John froze mid smile, and thankfully for him Sherlock had been back to his music, because without warning, John's world seemed to crumble. He remembered how he closed his eyes that night, pushing away the sight of the fire's light caressing Sherlock’s face so softly that he looked like a painting, of Sherlock's twirling silhouette, mesmerizing, dancing flashes of silk. 

John had gone up to bed but stayed awake all night, staring at the ceiling. He made his decision at 7 am, head heavy and limbs stiff.. He went downstairs, and life kept going as it always had between them. The only thing that ever changed was the heaviness permanently sitting on John's heart. 

A lot happened since that night. A death, a miracle, a wedding, a bullet, a divorce, a move, but mostly just two men lost between their lives.

And things changed again when John came back, luggage in his hand, silent, but for the first time in years, feeling right. 

Accidental touches went from casual to almost familiar now. Eyes would linger, smiles would be exchanged for 5 seconds too long, fingers would brush, shoulders would be pressed together. Yet everytime, they were pushing away, refusing to acknowledge it.  
It confused John. Oh, he knew Sherlock sought for human warmth, Sherlock was a really affectionate person when he wanted to be, and John was more than delighted to be the one giving that affection to him. But John didn't want to misinterpret Sherlock's signals, confuse affection for something more and thus ruin everything they started to build again. So he did as he always did. Kept going and kept quiet.

And now, here they were. In Paris, the most romantic city one could find. The one where people have their honeymoons, with bread, cheese, wine and lingering kisses in front of the Eiffel Tour. 

John sighed again as they were waiting to cross the road, the sunlight dazzling when reflected on the boats wobbling next to them, petals coming from the trees twirling around them. Spring was lovely, John thought, and it suited Sherlock. 

“You could use holidays more often, y'know. Especially when your brother is paying.”

Sherlock chuckled lightly and John saw some tension leave his shoulders with satisfaction. The detective nodded, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets, having left his coat at the hotel.  
“You're right. Let's invite all of my French homeless network to our hotel and have Mycroft pay for the rooms. He'd be delighted”

John stifled his laugh as a young smiling couple walked past them. John smiled fondly at the two girls, with their joined hands hanging between them, and their shy giggles, before looking over to Sherlock and getting a bit surprised to see a hint of softness lingering in Sherlock's eyes as they still followed the couple.

“You know what,” Sherlock said, his voice distracted, looking back in front of him, “I'm actually enjoying this.”

To John’s raised eyebrow, he waved a vague hand in the air.

“I love Paris. I do. It has a sort of stillness that London doesn't have. The buildings are cleaner and more organised and they smell of old wood and contain secret affairs and hidden letters. And you have a place like the Louvre, with so many people you can't breathe, and then you walk five minutes and you find a place like this, peaceful and yet far from boring. I’ve always loved Paris, since boarding school really.”

John couldn't help but smile, couldn't help but feel his heart almost burst out of his chest because of everything Sherlock was.

“Boarding school?” John asked, “Always thought you went to the best of the good old English public schools.”

He cocked an eyebrow and Sherlock huffed a laugh.

“I did. Almost all of them actually. But they don't usually like having a fire in the chem lab every week, so... yeah. “

They both chuckled, Sherlock shrugging a nonchalant shoulder, but his eyes were tingling with a quiet mirth.

Their pace still more of a stroll than a walk, they climbed the stairs to a small green bridge running across the singing water.

“Last option was France. You know my grandmother is from here, so I was sent to her and went to boarding school in the eastern countryside, but every now and then I snuck out to go to Paris.”

They had stopped walking to face the river, standing side by side on the middle of the bridge. John leaned down on the green wall and Sherlock followed his example, their shoulders pressed together , making John's heart ache with a familiar swelling.

“I was getting lost all the time, but that's how you visit Paris properly. You get lost and you discover the most amazing things. Once, I found a small bookshop where every surface was covered in books: wall, tables, chairs, everywhere. That was a magic place.”

John stayed quiet, watching Sherlock's eyes as they absently roamed the water. He was lost in his memories, and this felt far more intimate to John than some stolen glances or bumping limbs, something so precious John wanted to keep it forever. The softness of Sherlock's face, how his slight wrinkles were curling around his eyes, how his cheekbones were still lightly covered by a persistent blush, the way his face looked somehow younger. John smiled at himself, a twitch of a lip, his fingers playing with the scraped paint of the bridge.

“That's actually how I met Mrs. Hudson, you know. She grabbed me when I tried to sneak in at the Moulin Rouge for a case. Nobody had ever been so angry at me, I think, but I was only 16 after all. She was visiting a friend or something. Never saw her again, but then, five years later, I got a call and that's how I saved her life and she saved mine.”

John wasn't sure what, exactly, Sherlock was referring to, whatever happened between him and Mrs Hudson was too deep of an affection for John to ever fathom the whole of it, but he made a mental note thanking her for everything she ever did. 

“I left Paris when I was 17, I got into uni one year early, but my last year was the most terrible one. I almost got arrested four different times, got snowed in while I was breaking into the Louvre, stole a car and went to the hospital so many times the nurses were always waiting for me. They didn't really like me though. But nobody ever did back then.”

Sherlock's voice drifted lower and he shut his mouth, lips a thin line and John could see the floating dust of sadness hobbling in his eyes. He wanted to sweep it away forever and never see it again.

“Things changed quite a lot since you were a 17-year-old boy.”

“So many things things changed since I was a 17-year-old boy.” 

John hummed, closing his eyes for a second, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his face and the warmth of Sherlock's body at his side.

“Is it less romantic once you really know it? The town I mean, not the Moulin Rouge or the French prison.”  
John slightly opened one eye to peer at Sherlock grinning at him with a raised eyebrow, which only made John chuckle again. Eventually, Sherlock's grin faded, leaving Sherlock's face with a confused brow. he shrugged awkwardly,huge hands hovering in the air. 

“I guess a town is romantic if you want it to be. It'd depend on who you are with and what you're doing. I'v always found it romantic, but I-I never had anyone to share that with me. Until you- until now. But I guess a murderer using frozen bread to kill isn't normally considered romantic.”

John's eyes slowly slid open but his focus did not flinch from the river meandering under their feet. His heart was starting to speed up, to thrust against his ribs, leaving him short of breath. He swallowed his nausea loudly, his stomach oddly sensitive, before speaking again.

“Are you considering us normal, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stayed silent for a while and John started to feel the panic rising his chest, cold sweat pearling on his back, when a quiet voice interrupted his thoughts.

“We never were, John.”

Then Sherlock turned his head and John mimed the movement, both of them silent, leaning over the green wall. John couldn't move his eyes, they were glued to Sherlock, to the way the sunset was turning the water into liquid gold and to the way Sherlock's whole face seemed to wear a dazzling aura. The whole world was slowly vanishing, a bubble of quietness growing around them, an immaterial force pushing John forward, closer. 

John's voice was but a whisper, Sherlock being close enough to hear, their eyes still locked together, suspended in time.

“Then let me tell you. This is the most romantic thing I've ever done and I'm glad it's been with you.”

Their noses were touching now, and John noticed how Sherlock was unconsciously leaning his head on the side as they grew closer. 

“Oh?”

Sherlock's breath was warm on John's lips and smelled of mint and black coffee. John had to surpress a shiver, refusing to move or close his eyes, still looking into Sherlock's, and he kept leaning down, their lips now grazing and John's heart hammering.

“Oh, indeed.”

The kiss itself started so shy it was probably ridiculous to see. Just chaste lips against lips, like two middle school sweethearts kissing for the first time. Then, John shifted his hand, bringing his fingers up to caress Sherlock's cheeks, tilting the detective's head so slightly, but it was far from enough because suddenly John's other hand was sliding to Sherlock's neck and Sherlock's hands were grabbing John's shirt. Most importantly, they were finally kissing properly. John's lips were dancing on Sherlock's, the kiss bruising, telling more than any words they ever said. 

John sucked at Sherlock's bottom lip, making Sherlock gasp softly and open his mouth. John didn't hesitate. Letting his tongue caress Sherlock's lips, he then crashed their mouths together again and pushed inside. The kiss deepened and John thought that maybe he had been dead for ages but never actually noticed because everything looked too perfect, too real to be true. His heart was still jumping in his chest, his knees seemed oddly unresponsive, and he couldn't stop his hands from touching every inch of Sherlock's clothed body. 

They broke off at the same time, panting but looking at each other with beaming eyes. John pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s once before creating a little distance, his hands moving to gently hold Sherlock's face. 

He felt like laughing to the world and never stopping if it meant Sherlock would laugh with him.

“So,”

John said, not being able to contain the huge smile growing on his lips. Sherlock beamed back, his cheeks flushed.

“So?”

“Is this romantic enough for you or do I need to put on the horrible French accent to command the most expensive wine I can find so that I can woo you à la françoise?”

Sherlock laughed again, his voice low and soft like a caress. John clicked his tongue before dropping a small kiss on Sherlock's lips, hands still gently holding the detective's face.  
“It's “française”, John. Françoise is a name. But if you want to woo me like someone called Françoise, please, be my guest. Everything you'd do would be what I want anyway.”

John stuck his tongue out and pinched Sherlock's hip, making him yelp in an adorably high pitched voice. His hand lingered on Sherlock's side, thumb now rubbing small circles on Sherlock's silky shirt and John could feel the warmth emanating from Sherlock's skin.

“Can I still take you out on a proper date? Or would you rather me to take you somewhere else?”

Sherlock's eyes went almost black as his cheeks became a much darker shade of red. He licked his lips and John's eyes couldn't help but follow the wet path Sherlock's tongue was drawing on the swollen flesh. John's throat went very dry.

Sherlock opened his mouth a few times before speaking, and his voice was so low and breathless, a grumble more than anything else, that John had to bite his own lip not to take him right there on the bridge.  
“I think we should go back to the hotel. Anything else would be… inconvenient.”

John grinned and Sherlock smiled back, a genuine curl of his lips and John couldn't resist. He pushed on his toes and brought their lips back together, their chests flushed, one hand still on Sherlock's cheek. 

John broke off and whispered on Sherlock's lips. 

“Hotel it is, then.”

Sherlock let out a long breath, his eyes huge and his hands twitching with eagerness. John kissed his nose gently, making him bite his smile almost shyly, before taking a step back, eyes examining Sherlock's frame. He looked positively disheveled, hair sticking out, his shirt now wrinkled, and John couldn't help but feel deeply satisfied. He then slowly put one curl back behind Sherlock's ear, winking at him. 

“Let's go then.”

They pushed off the side of the bridge, walking back to their hotel slowly, wandering in the sinuous Parisian streets, smiles never leaving their lips. 

And this time, when their hands bumped neither of them pulled away.

**Author's Note:**

> Hullo people <3  
> First I'd like to thank my two buddies, Fede and Eve because they're the best kiddy kiss ily.  
> And also this might be the first one of a series set in the European capitals, so stay put and maybe you'll have the rest later. If you really want to know, this one is roughly set in "canal st martin" in paris, look it up if needed, it's one of the most romantic place in Paris.


End file.
